Numbers Game

I can still remember the day we met.

It was move-in day for the freshman and all of Smith Hall was buzzing. Kids were walking up staircases with boxes in their hands obstructing their views, making them completely unaware to the other students trying to get by them. Josh and I had already been living together for over two weeks, having moved in early because we were part of the football team. The room we lived in was built to accomodate two roommates, but we'd chosen to allow a third person to live with us to ease the housing crunch and also save $500 per semester off our housing bills.

The day finally arrived for us to meet our roommate, Ryan Thompson, whom I'd called earlier in the summer just to get that first nervous conversation out of the way. He seemed like a nice enough guy over the phone, but I had no clue what he looked like. So when I came back into my room from flagging my mom down in the parking lot and saw the back of a small, skinny kid who couldn't have been older than 16, I knew Ryan had arrived, but figured the figure sitting on the bed in the middle of the room was his little brother.

Hi, I'm Ryan. Are you Josh?

Heeeey, no, I'm Sean. Josh is out getting lunch I think. Nice to meet you.

Of course, what I learned over those first couple of months is that it wasn't nice to meet Ryan. His bed, which hadn't been in the room until the day of his moving in, created some serious space problems. As did the extra desk they shoved into the room...along with the spare dresser. All these new things upset the rhythm Josh and I had just begun to establish and sent the room no bigger than a solitary confinement jail cell into disarray.

We bickered constantly, struggling to find a common ground between his love for quiet and stillness while studying and my need for music or television noise in the background. He hated my music and asked me to either turn it down or off nearly every day.

Our schedules conflicted. I always seemed to have time off when he was studying. There were times when I deliberately did things to upset him and get him to study somewhere else. Where, I didn't care. There were times when he said things that got me so angry, I left the room to keep from punching him right in his stinkface.

Seaaaaan...

He always used to say that, switching from higher octave to lower when he got to the A. It was such a condecending tone (or at least I took it as such) that I started doing and saying things just to get him to say it because it was his sign of frustration. I loved to frustrate him.

Eventually, the craziest of things happened...we became friends. He, Joshua and myself began going to dinner together at Take 5. We'd talk about the matters of that day and just random things in general: a recent Simpsons episode, a joke Conan O'Brien might have said that Ryan missed because he always haaaaad to be asleep by 9 o'clock. At least it felt like that to me since I never went to bed earlier than midnight. Things weren't perfect, but we learned how to tolerate each other, then how to not mind each other's company, then how to -- gasp! -- enjoy each other's company. By winter break, things weren't perfect, but they were OK enough to where changing rooms between semesters was no longer a threat. It set the stage for some amazing things in the upcoming semester.

The three of us began having late-night talks after Conan's monologue, which we'd watch as a group as Josh mimicked Conan's little opening hop. We'd talk about anything and everything, me or Josh usually bringing up the topic and Ryan giving his self-assured opinion and Josh and I bouncing off that. To this day, I think those talks are what turned us into the group we affectionately call 203. Unity was fostered in the penny fights I'd pick with Ryan which would start only after all the lights were out. I'd hit him in the face. He'd hit the window behind me. We'd all play Super Smash Bros. on my Nintendo 64 and create our own game-playing vernacular. Boot to the face! Donkey kick to Hell! Quit poaching my kills! Poke-lag. Crossfire! There are times when we get together now that we still play, like we did last Wednesday, and everything comes rushing back to the fore...as if it hasn't been eight years since we lived with each other.

So much has changed since then (including his height!), the biggest of which being that Ryan is getting married in two weeks to a wonderful lady named Holly. Josh and I now have a code for how we classify girls based on how Ryan gushed about her in the early stages of their dating. If she's "amazing," then she's wifey material because when he began telling us about her, all we remember is him saying "she's amazing" in a way that we just knew something was up. When we lived together, I always used to tell him he'd get married before either Josh or myself because it was perfect Godly irony that he had the shortest dating record of the three of us and would find his wife first. Sure enough...

I also told him I'd be happier at his wedding than my own because of some of the sour luck he'd experienced. I don't know who deserves it more than him. I wish one day that I can have his character. It'll be a long time coming, that's for sure.

But now that he's getting hitched, it also means he's leaving, both literally and figuratively. A couple weeks after the wedding, the newlyweds will move to Northern California, which I'm pretty sure will put a crimp into the number of 203 sightings. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure about that one. It's a weird little mixture of incredible happiness for his joy and the sadness of losing the availability of one of my two best friends. I think in my own little selfish way, it's a good test run to get me ready for when they leave the country, which is coming sooner than later. I don't know that it's something I look forward to. Gonna miss him.

I pray it isn't the end of 203. Some guys disappear after they get married. I don't think such is the case with the old Ryebread, but you never know. You can't predict these things. You can't have 203 without all three of us. It's a strange mixture when we come together that can't be described. Two of us together isn't the same as all three. The dynamics just aren't the same. Wednesday reminded me of that and made me nostalgic for the days when we literally couldn't go two steps without running into each other.

We're older, hopefully wiser and growing up. But part of me still misses the late-night talks and penny fights.

Primal Urges

Sometimes you just wanna howl at the moon, kinda like my good buddy Quinton "Rampage" Jackson up there. By good buddy I mean, I've seen him beat people up on t.v. just like everyone else. See, he's a mixed martial artist...as in he beats people up for a living. Every time he wins, he howls. It's his "thing" and probably something his competitors wished they'd thought of first. It's a pretty cool celebration and takes you back to when us humans were fending for ourselves in the forests and deserts and prairies of this world. Sure, we weren't howling, but I'm sure we had to be making some sort of primal screams to show just how dominant we were.

I don't know about anybody else, but for the last few months, I've been itching to howl. It sounds weird, I know. But I remember when I was playing football and we'd scream and hoot and make whatever else noise we wanted during pregame. If you scoff, just try it some day and see how you feel afterward. Giving a powerful, unrestrained yelp could very well be cathartic. And while I'm not sure how soothing it'd be to beat someone up for a living, I can see how they'd go hand in hand with the after-the-fact howling.

Maybe I'll do it at Ryan's wedding. The howling, not the beating of people. Although I think either way I'm going to be the hit of the party! Wohoo!

Third Time's A Charm?

Over the last year, I've applied to work for a certain magazine two different times.

The first time, I felt great about things. I was a naive 25-year-old who pretty much just assumed he'd get any job he wanted. Previous experiences had lent to the mindset and so when I found out they'd filled the job internally, I didn't take it especially well.

Time No. 2 was entirely different. Well, not quite. I was still 25, probably still a little naive about the job application process, but definitely a little more jaded about the situation since at that point I'd been turned down for one that had enthralled me even more than the previous position.

So I applied.
And got a postcard back thanking me for my application and that I'd be informed further if they liked what they saw. That was all I heard from them.

I have applied once again, at the wise old age of 26, not expecting to get the job, but fully confident I can get the job done should they be wise enough to see what I'm about.

Hopefully, the third time's the charm.
I'd appreciate full-time employment again.

Why I Like Barack

So in the honor of dual promotion and the like, I thought I'd just re-post a blog from my MySpace blog that I did a couple months ago. Seeing as how he's now the actual nominee, I figure it's a good time. So yes...here it. Enjoy!




I remember the day well...

It was late 2004 and I was watching the last night of the Democratic National Convention on ABC. Charlie Gibson – or maybe it was Peter Jennings, I can’t quite remember – sat perched above the convention center and talked about how there would be a young, charismatic senator from Illinois who had been chosen to give the keynote address before John Kerry came out to speak. He said his name, Barack Obama, as if he was savoring every syllable.

Barrrrrrack Obahhhmahhh.

When he walked out onto the stage, to a huge ovation, a long, lanky figure, my mind swam with questions as I sat at my desk chair, having just eaten dinner.

Who is this guy to get this kind of ovation?How have I not heard of him yet if he’s this popular?He’s black? There’s another prominent black person on the horizon?He looks young. How old is he?

I just sat there and watched him with his bright purple tie and self-assured smile as he stepped to the podium, giving what seemed to be a genuine smile to the elated crowd. He spoke of some amazingly controversial things at the time: being inclusive. He talked about collaborating with Republicans and his belief in an America that’s more than red states and blue states. I later figured out that was the reason for his tie color, the combination of red and blue. He spoke of his dream for the country and how, despite the current tenor of the politics of the time (which has only gotten worse, by the way), we as a nation, as a conglomerate of good-hearted people could make it the United States of America once again.

I was captivated. Here was a man talking about the audacity of hope, how there’s a certain boldness that comes with believing in the good in people. Being a jaded, pessimistic cynic takes no courage. Having hope in people, entrusting them with your dreams by giving them the benefit of the doubt takes immense courage. For the first time in my lifetime someone was talking about such things as if they weren’t wistful allegory, rather as though they could actually happen...and in our lifetime, no less. This is not some dreamland, it is our country and we can make it happen.
In early 2006, when I found out he had a book out, Dreams From My Father, I clamored to get it. I read it in two weeks. After I finished reading the book, which he wrote after having become the first black man and youngest person ever to head the Harvard Law Review, I decided to write him a letter letting him know the divine purpose I felt he possessed and that it was his duty to run for president in the upcoming campaign. There could be no waiting another four or – God forbid – eight years. America needed him now. Three weeks later, before I’d actually written the letter, Barack announced his plans to run.

When I tell people who I support, I usually get the "oh it’s cause you’re black" look or maybe they’ll just come right out and say it. It’s the kind of prejudiced thought process crippling our country today. People can’t like to do something simply because they like to do it, it must be because of their race or upbringing. Blacks aren’t supposed to skateboard and listen to punk music. White people aren’t supposed to like anything other than country music. Latinos are only allowed to take the low-wage jobs, but not too many or else there’s hell to pay. One of the actual reasons I’ve heard for why he shouldn’t be president is that his middle name is Hussein, as if it’ll mean he’ll be a tyrant as well or something. Barack isn’t Muslim, he’s a Christian, but because his Kenyan family gave him a name with Islamic roots, he’s torn down as if he’s one of the enemy.

That’s not the country I believe in and it certainly isn’t the one our forefathers sought independence for.

I believe in a country that actually had an island devoted solely to the acceptance of immigrants and still has people risking their lives every single day simply to set foot on its land.

I believe the people of this country have so much more in common than not and that what divides us should be embraced instead of seen as a reason for hate or bias. My two best friends are superficially nothing like me. One, a tall, lanky, pale white, conservative kid from Orange County who had had no relationship deeper than acquaintance with a black person before he’d met me. The other, a fit, olive-skinned half-Irish, half-Portuguese who loved punk and wearing sole-less Vans. Instead of picking each other apart, we have picked up each others’ tendencies and ambitions. All three of us now like punk – and hip hop. One changed his party affiliation. We realized our similarities outweighed our differences. How galvanized would the country be if more people did the same?

I believe this country could be so much more than what it has become, a disappointing menagerie of fear-based political agendas. The kind of polarizing jargon that has, until recently, made most Democrats afraid to say one word against the war on terror for fear that they’ll be called unpatriotic.

(Sidebar: What’s going on in Iraq is most definitely not a war on terror. It’s a war to control one of the most oil-rich countries in the Middle East. Had it been a war on terror, as Mr. Bush likes to call it, we would have kept the focus on the actual terrorists, which were – and still are, by the way – in Afghanistan and Pakistan. The Iraq War is all about taking care of his father’s unfinished business and then maintaining possession of one of Iran’s neighbors.)

I believe the power still lies within the people, we simply don’t realize it. Instead, we accept being told what’s in our best interest and allow our rights to be taken away from us, one discredited Amendment at a time, for the "good of the country." It is up to us to seek the knowledge being deprived by the current administration. An educated population is a strong one and the more people who realize that, the better off our nation will be. So long as we simply accept what is being fed to us without delving deeper, we will continue to feel like the power is being sucked away faster than blood by a leech.

That starts with us trusting each other, being able to move as a unit instead of a collection of combative individuals. It starts with us being able to trust the leadership we elect into positions of power. It starts with us taking control by taking pride and responsibility in voting our (educated) conscience. It starts with us being passionate about the things that matter in this world. That is how we unite.

I believe one person can lead the country back together after nearly a decade of such severe divisiveness that people call each other conservative and liberal as if it’s a bad name or something of which they should be ashamed. I believe one person has the charisma and the audacity to believe it can happen too.

I believe his name is Barack Obama, the tall, lanky black guy with the purple tie.

List Update

I was watching TV a few days ago and noticed someone who was left off my list. When I realized it, I really was ashamed. I mean, it's such an egregious error, I'm almost embarassed to actually put it on here, especially considering my previous error, but she must go on.

So, without further adieu...

I present the new No. 3: Stacey Dash.

Believe it or not, She turned 42 on January 20th. Oh, and btw, there were many other pictures, but I just wanted to protect her...umm....privacy. That's what we'll call it.

Oh Father, Where Art Thou?

<----- Take a look at that picture. I mean, take a good look. Examine it for a few seconds. Go ahead. I've got time... Ok, good. Now that that's done, I thought I'd talk about that lady down in the bottom left. It's my mom. For those of you who have never seen her before and are a little struck by the fact that we're pretty different in color, I'll answer you first question: No, my father isn't white. He's the same complection as me, which caused me to be born looking like I was Michael Jackson -- post vitiligo outbreak. In fact, she always used to tell me how the only part of her that I got was my nose. I'd like to think I have a pretty cute nose, so I'll be more than happy to say I got that from her. All I really have to go on to know how the man who gave me my Y chromosome is my mom's word, though -- well that and a picture from when I was about 3 where he came to visit me -- because my father was a deadbeat, both by title and (lack of) action.

Now, I'm working on a little something dealing with this issue that I'm not yet comfortable revealing, but needless to say, the lack of a father has impacted me in ways I'm probably not even aware of at this moment. So every year, when Father's Day comes around, it's always a strange little feeling. I mean, there are some years when I don't even realize the day. I've never had a reason to commemorate it with anything more than the thought of what it would have been like to have a father. I wonder, but that's the extent of it.

I'm a daydreamer by trade. Those of you who know me well know that most of the dreams I have never come during my REM. They come when the sun is still up. I used to do it all the time at school growing up, then at work. I just drift into another world. In all my dreams, I've never seen what it would be like with a father. It simply doesn't enter my consciousness.

Three of my close friends have lost their fathers, one whose dad just passed three weeks ago. I try to empathize and think about how hard it must be for them, but the truth is I have no idea. Only recently have I even had a male mentoring figure in my life, so all my experiences in learning from men have been pretty sparse. Actually, contentious is probably the better-suited word. When a man tries to educate me, in any sense of the word, things don't usually go over too well.

Needless to say, Father's Day is just another day to me. The only thing special about it is that it give me a chance to buy some new clothes or undershirts or something, capitalizing on the Father's Day sales...the one week of the year that men's clothing actually is discounted.

Juno just came to mind...the part where Jennifer Gardner's character is trying to convince Juno that Jason Bateman's character really does wanna be a father, but he's just hesitant. As Juno is scurrying out of their suburban splendor of a home, she says, "All the books say a woman becomes a mother when she gets pregnant, a man becomes a father once he sees his child."

If that's true, then I probably won't really "get" Father's Day until I'm a father myself.
I'm OK with that.

Let's go back up to that photo. I'd use an arrow, but I don't know how to make one go straight up like I would need it. Take another look at it. I'm a patient man (well, somewhat), I can wait.

I've always heard that single mothers have to be the mother and the father and that's why it's so hard. I don't know that I agree with that. The male role in a family is extremely important and a mother, no matter how strong she is, can't replace that. Over the years, my mom has attempted to give me mentors and have me get close to men, seemingly sensing this. Most of the time, I've been pretty obstinate to any efforts she's made in the area. At this point, it's too late. I'm a grown man. I don't need another man trying to treat me like a child.

Nope, I may not have had a father, but I had a mother who did teach me alot:

When dealing with a woman, above all else, treat her with respect.
Open every door for her. (She still stands in front of doors and waits for me to get there to open them up for her. If I hesitate, she just looks at me until I figure it out.)
Be honest with her.
Tell her she's beautiful.
Make her laugh.
Don't be afraid to be "soft" around her. Show her your kind heart.
But don't be too soft.

So I'm not one of those guys who gives his single mom a sappy Father's Day card. I didn't have one and that's OK. My mom taugh me more than enough and she did a better job than Carl Chandler probably would have.

But she was wrong about something --I got much more from her than my nose. And I can thank God for that...and her, too.

(P.S: This is what I looked like for the first year of my existence. Well, cuter of course. Oh, and I didn't have eyebrows for the first six months. I was like the yellow sheep of my family. Still kinda am, actually, but that's another blog for another day.)

Starry Eyes

I looked into the sky for a brief second and in that instant, You winked at me.

And I was broken.

Once the flood washes away the past, all that's left is to rebuild.

Grease this puppy up

I'm a lucky guy, I know this much. I have a roof, food, occasional means to acquire said food.

It's just that sometimes you feel like things are so stagnant that you wonder when exactly they'll become more fluid. I could use some increased viscosity right about now. Something's gotta get the gears turning.

I need clarity.
Lord, I need clarity.

Monumental Dilemma

Ok, well not "monumental," per se, but it's definitely not one I'd like to think about...

This week -- Tuesday, specifically -- is going to be a day of tough decisions for me. You see, no less than four of my favorite musical artists are coming out on the same exact day.

Now, normally, it'd be one of the best days of the year. I'd be writing a blog celebrating the fact that I get to enjoy that much new music from artists I love and how Tuesday will be nothing but a day-long audiogasm.

However, there's no joy in Mudville this year because of the whole no job thing. So I'll have to choose between a few favs, including Coldplay.

Ugh, this is going to be tough.

On The Road

Something about traveling stokes the embers of my soul like very few things do.

It's not even being in the new place, I know that much. I enjoy the packing, driving to the airport, getting the ticket, going through the security checks (ok, well maybe not that part of it), putting my clothes back on from the TSA strip search if I have a beard that trip, walking to the gate, sitting at the gate, sitting at the gate some more, getting on the flight, adjusting my knees to a comfortable area so they aren't pressed up against the seat in front of me when the person in said occupied seat leans back (they ALWAYS do), turning my headphones back on after the plane is in the air, watching the the little sim cities go by on the way to the destination, anticipating the landing, thanking God for a safe landing, waiting for the masses to exit the plane, walking out into a new city I've never seen before and walking around the terminal wondering just how many different places all these people are from.

I love the act of traveling more than actually being in the new place. It's strange. The best part of traveling with my football team back in college was the actual traveling. I mean, sure, the game was fun and winning was definitely nice. But it was the traveling that got me going.

Maybe I should do it more often.
That'd be nice.

Just a few things I'm thinking about...

Am I less of a man because I happen to enjoy Sex and the City?

I have body hair, a deep voice, fairly large hands and played football for 11 years of my life, does that offset knowing who Aidan is and feeling his pain?

The wedding for one of my best friends is in a little more than a month.

I couldn't be happier about that.

Unfortunately, I'm unemployed and don't really have money for their gift. Maybe I'll get them a ladel or silverware set or something.

After talking with a couple friends about my Top 5 Women Over 35 Who Still Rock My Socks, I thought I might have missed a couple of ladies who should not be left off the list: Persia White and amazing, indominable Lisa Bonet. Yes, please. Now, while Persia isn't yet 35 (still just 31! She's within bonafide striking distance), she's disqualified from the running. If she was 35, though, she'd supplant somebody...possibly Salma. Heresy, I know. Lovely Lisa, however, just turned 40(!) last year, so she's gotta find a spot on the list. So, I thought about it for a bit and Lisa -- who is probably the reason I like the ladies that I like -- moves all the way up to No. 2, bumping Halle to third and Salma out of the Top 5. Sad times, but it had to be done. No way I can leave out the lady who has shaped my dating tastes. Cheers!

A Quickie

I love You, Lord.

I trust You with my life and the decisions within them. I trust that you will guide me and give me the right direction to make the choices You would have me make. It is by Your will that I strive to live my life, not by mine.

I pray that in these upcoming days, weeks, months and years that I make my choices according to Your plan for my life, even though I have no clue what that specifically is at this point in my life. You do not make mistakes. I trust You completely and will go wherever you want me to go, regardless of where I want to be.

Thank You, Lord, for life.
Thank You for all of the blessings you have given me.

Your will be done in my life.